Flies

After a while the flies find you
Sinking into skin
Like love letters I’m waiting for.
I try my passive eye
With a lazy wind
Covering my imagination
While three ewes
Run circles,
Their heads down
Wishing for longer grass to hide in.
But my exhaustion
Just watches two blackflies
One on each wrist
Searching for that perfect place
To bite in
Just like the lover
I’m waiting to hear from.
My presence will outweight
My disregard here,
Just as the sun knows
It outweighs the wind
And there are no flies who care less.

My Suffering

I am not a descendant
Neither an ancestor
I walk only
Upon land un-owned
I hear voices
That I may not know
And recognize patterns
Inside my zone
That don’t jive
With my dreams and goals.

So then shall I be reborn?
Shall I find within me
The God I shall be?
Listening and believing
Actions and ideals
In perfect synchronicity?

My barefeet stumble,
My pattern outlayed.
But I still step softly
In spite the growing
Disillusionment
Bearing down upon my
Alighted brow
So that this God in me
Is the God that you see
And my suffering
Is not the God that shall be
In you.

Rose Petals

This is not a trail of broken hearts;
Fallen crimson rose petals
Reminding me of each cycle
Lost and reborn
Sun and moon dance.

This is a ripening and maturing
A ferment and bottle conditioned
Led by the golden tears
Of Springs fresh showers.

A frosty morning
With birds calling from branches
Yet bearing,
And a sly cat whispering:
Good day Sir, come along.

Not Spoken

I’m not spoken anymore
Dried in a bottom of dust
Let my soul sing
With fire sparks tonight
Can’t I get along alone
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

Forget every song
I’ve written all wrong
Glory and frail,
Perfect and undone
Startling morning sun
My breath: heavy hung
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

Empty this bucket
Lost in a sea
Between footsteps
Greeting me
And it’s dark
Close my eyes
To forget
For Coyote whispers
And Dog whispers back.

I’m Interested

I’m interested, like the moon is interested in a ruksack.

Take me home, take me there, I want to see where you were made. And I’ll bring my spare tire so I don’t get stuck along the way, because I know a Legend of Boulders that weigh the most upon the road.

But after twilight, after my omnipotent vision among Cassiopeia disperses with Sun’s warmth and glow, I’ll still be looking to the sky, watching for each bomb to blow, each shifting sliver of this silver moon as it orbits slight off of thirty one.

I’m interested. I want to hear the whistle, for without the whistle, I know not who treads there though I’ve heard the Legend told here.

Fermented Madness

I awoke into my madness
Blind, awake
Lifeless but my breath
And all around me spanned vines
Crawling amidst my thoughts
Scaling trees
Leaving me a gnarled world
As if each fruit I picked.
Dreaming as I lay awake
Of fermented terroir
Calmly settling inside the vice
A cork upon thy voice.
Can sweet time carry a vision?
Can it send me notes?
For not too soon shall I carry home
What lay me into madness.

Deepening

You wore your hair on an unwritten novel
That was bound with your daily drawl
Mixed among the thunderstorms
Of a lonely prairie home.
Cows were milked twice a day
And dust blew into your eyes
Leaving streaks running diagonal
Across your rosy cheeks
With an agonizing look
You had long put on
Prepared for deepening silence.

A memory was your novel
That got caught up finding new verbs
For the same things you’d always done
And your hands that worked
In daily grind
With suds and lemonade
Looked increasingly like
They were forming to the job.

Why did you watch the horizon
Each day around two or three?
As dust had settled from morning’s fury
“In time for tea,” you’d say,
The milk cow, knowing nothing more
Chewed and watched you at your chore
No thought did cross it’s mind.

So sad did the lesson grow
A mind lost of ten thousand reasons
Thunderstorm in Sun’s sweet blessing
If it was not you, save pray for more
So today will sing of tomorrow
A song you knew intuitively
As cow’s milk begun to pour
And dust blew through your hair.

Bellows

This cold landscape bellows,
Blowing endlessly
With a high pitched wallow
And I am not a voice in it.
No animated gust of white dust,
No longing wave of seed heads bobbing,
No tall tree, naked and exposed
Arms wide open
Awaiting for the sun.

This cold landscape bellows,
And I sit in isolation
Completely enveloped
By a drawn sensation.
Dampness smouldering the fire
As snow melts to ice I sit upon,
And the red tinge of frozen willows
Keeps this glowing fire
I have not set.

Forgiveth

I am moody
I’m the gravel inspiration
Of a moonlit breath
Standing naked against
Each whispering hallow
Deep within consciousness,
Though cackles be heard.
And here I stand,
Abreast the fight
Holding a heartache
That’s dazed
But still conscious
With an armful
Of medicine
Tunneling out the holes
I havent made time
To mend yet.
Oh, how art forgiveth.
How loose
Can these boundaries be?
How can thy closing eyes
Retreat once into dream
Twice into heavens,
With hardly a thread
Seperating this moment
And to their’s.

A New Mind

Windows took my heart
And told me to walk slow
Down a dusty path
That never ended
Into the glow.

I walked until I stopped
Took two deep breaths
Of fresh air
Saw a raven whisper thoughts
I could faintly hear.

With all my strength
I took a step
Leading me away
And forth I went
With a new mind
Gallantly aflame.